Pages

Friday, October 28, 2016

“But there was in it
one river especially, a mighty river resembling an immense snake uncoiled....
The snake had charmed me.” Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

Just below the put-in for the Numbers

Fourteen years ago my paddling
partner, Noah, and I dipped our kayaks into the turbid waters of the Arkansas
River just downstream of the tiny hamlet of Granite, Colorado. The water level
was a spicy 2,000 cubic feet per second (cfs), not high exactly but fast enough
to push the river’s signature rapid, Pine Creek, into the realm of class V. The
two of us navigated our boats through a playground of bouncy class III-IV
warm-up water, arriving after a few miles at the familiar horizon line that
marked the start of the infamous rapid.

We were arrogant teenagers, admittedly
driven by ego and seduced by the notion of personal glory. Just a few weeks
earlier at a slightly lower flow of 1,500 cfs we had negotiated Pine Creek
without incident, but the extra 500 cfs proved just enough to tip the danger
scale into the red. We scouted for nearly half an hour, neither daring to admit
our skills might not be equal to the maelstrom below us. Finally it was me who cast
aside hubris and surrendered to the reality that I simply wasn’t up for the
challenge.

But that “tomorrow” never came. The
next season, Noah badly dislocated his shoulder during high water in the
Colorado River’s Glenwood Canyon. The resulting swim was so traumatic he hung up
his paddle up for good. As for myself, my passions drifted away from the river
and instead towards high peaks and vertical rock faces as a climber and mountaineer.
Fourteen years ago I would have been disappointed with fifty river days in a
summer. Now I am lucky to count ten.

But every now and then, my mind returns
to the dark heart of that serpentine river between Granite and Buena Vista. And
I often want to go back and complete that run we started.

These days I am no longer a
teenager but a married man in the early half of his 30s. I have had enough
accidents, near misses and dearly departed friends to have molted completely
the illusion of teenage invulnerability. Any risk I am willing to take these
days is far more calculated.

In the last half decade, I formed a
new paddling alliance with an old friend, Derek, whom I have known since those
early, more-reckless years. After a particularly gratifying high-water run down
our backyard Colorado River, the conversation turned to the Arkansas and its
foreboding crux, Pine Creek and The Numbers. This stretch of river, once the
quintessential proving ground for the advanced and expert kayaker, has taken on,
in a sense, the role of the elder statesmen: a wise but aged representative of
a state full of world-class talent. While no longer cutting edge, it is still
considered a classic. And as it turned out, Derek had never paddled it.

So it was that the two of us ended
up strapping on our life jackets, cinching down our helmets and edging our
kayaks into the Arkansas. Derek was barely six months off open heart surgery,
and I was struggling with a troublesome neck injury that put my ability to roll
and maneuver with the same skill as fourteen years earlier somewhat into
question. We were infallible teenagers no longer.

After a brief scout and an honest
analysis of our rusty skillset, we decided to test our nerves on The Numbers before
considering the class V testpiece Pine Creek. Though a full number grade
softer, The Numbers still consisted of five miles of tumbling class IV
whitewater dropping at a consistent clip of just over 70 feet per mile.

Dropping into Number 5

There are six amplifications to the
otherwise consistent whitewater, each given non-creative but nevertheless effective
numerical designations (hence “The Numbers”). Numbers Four and Five had a
long-standing reputation as the most difficult, and after a quick car-scout,
Number Five seemed to give us the most pause. This, it seemed, would be the
crux of our day.

The rapid entailed a river-wide
ledge followed by an airplane turn of chaotic waves and fang-like boulders. From
shore it looked like the open jaws of a snake eager to engulf us into its twisted
interior.

After our pre-run scout, we
nervously slid our kayaks into the water and let the put-in fade behind us. We
negotiated Number One without incident, followed by Two and Three in quick
succession. I felt a measure of confidence returning. Every line was clean: no
flips, no swims, no bumps or grinds. The air was blue and the nearby Collegiate
Peaks watched over like surly security guards, arms folded over their chests.

Around a corner, the river narrowed
and accelerated into Number Four. Fourteen years before, Noah and I had plunged
through this difficult rapid an hour after our “failure” at Pine Creek. It was
this dusty memory I relied on now to guide us to the bottom. Right, left, right
past some formidable hydrology and we were through the heart of Number Four. We
congratulated ourselves with reserved exuberance, but the worst was still ahead.

After a brief lunch we paddled
under a bridge and carved into an eddy on river left at the top of Number Five.
From our low vantage, not much could be seen, only scattered boulders and the frenetic
leap of crashing whitewater. We glanced at each other nervously. Like Marlow in
Heart of Darkness, we had navigated
our river and now confronted Kurtz at last.

But the rapid proved less than our
minds had made it. I tipped over event horizon, punched through the river-wide
hydraulic and, a few paddle strokes later, landed in the safety of the eddy
below. Derek and I felt as self-assured as adolescents, having conquered each
rapid with cool confidence and nearly flawless execution.

“We should have done Pine Creek!” I
exclaimed. With the worst behind us it was easy to be cocky.

Derek nodded. “We can come back
tomorrow. It will always be there.”

Yes,
I thought to myself as my kayak bobbed up and down in the eddy. It will be there tomorrow. And the day after
that.------------------------------------------------------------------

Follow Me on Twitter!Sign up for my Mailing ListAll writing is the original work of Brian Wright and may not be copied, distributed, re-printed or used any form without express written consent of the author. Find out here how to CONTACT me with publishing and/or use questions

Friday, October 21, 2016

On a windy exposed prow high above
the iron-rusted desert floor, I climbed nervously toward the first piton. It is
the infamous runout of pitch four of Otto’s Route on Independence Tower in
Colorado National Monument. Sixty feet of un-protected climbing on a narrow,
slick spire. My heart was roaring in my chest, palms damp from adrenaline. One
slip now would send me careening over the edge one hundred and fifty feet to
the Lunchbox Ledge below.

“You’re doing great!” Ella, my
belayer and wife, yelled up in my direction. I wanted to believe her, but how
could she be so sure? The hardest part was still ahead. I placed each foot with
intense care, battling the sensation I was tap dancing with disaster. Finally, the
first piton was in front of me and the carabiner snapped as the rope dropped
into place. An elephant of anxiety fell from my shoulders.

“I’m in,” I yelled down. The summit
was tantalizingly close, but between me and success was twenty feel of
over-hanging sandstone pocked with big but slippery holds.

The spire’s phallic exposure caught
up to me all at once. For a moment I could have been floating. It seemed like
nothing but air was all around. The desert’s exhale filled my ears. Relax, I commanded myself. But instead
of taking my own advice, I peered nervously down the sheer, three-hundred foot
drops to each side.

With a deep exhale, I climbed
towards the infamous and exposed crux.

*

On Independence Day 1911 a man
named John Otto planted the American flag atop the tallest free-standing
feature in the newly minted Colorado National Monument. He’d reached the top of
Independence Tower by chipping steps and drilling two-inch holes to install a serpentine
pipe-ladder all the way up the majestic maroon pinnacle. Without a belayer but
occasionally using a hemp rope as an anchor, Otto completed the astounding feat
using a miner’s hand drill, a hammer and a set of cowboy boots. Little did he
know as he chopped his way skyward, that not only was he cementing his own
place in Colorado history, he was creating what would later become one of
western Colorado’s most classic multi-pitch rock climbs.

Otto carried the title of the
Colorado National Monument’s “custodian” and knew its walls, towers, and
canyons better than anyone. When he first arrived in Grand Junction in 1906 he was
immediately struck by the stark beauty of this desert playground. He spent much
of his time exploring its serpentine slot canyons and secret corners. Many of
the names that still grace the park’s most notable features were given by Otto:
Liberty Cap, Wedding Canyon, and others. By 1907, his obsession with the area
had taken over. He wrote of the park in these early years, “I came here last
year and found these canyons, and they feel like the heart of the world to me.
I’m going to stay and build trails and promote this place, because it should be
a national park.”

But the feature that drew his eye
more than any other was the impressive 300-foot spire that sat alone and proud
in the open basin between Monument and Wedding Canyons. Sticking with his
fervently patriotic theme, Otto named the feature Independence Monument and
lived for some time in a tent at its base. By then Otto had already developed a
taste for expressing his strongly American sentiment by planting flags atop
other park features, such as Liberty Cap, a rounded, petrified sand dune
stationed prominently in the park’s center, east of Monument Canyon. But Otto’s
eye had already been turning upward for something greater.

*

Higher still, I clipped the second
piton. Just a few more moves and I would be on top. The rock was getting
steeper, angling towards the overhanging summit cap ten feet higher. Hesitating
on a large handhold, I worked my feet high on the sandy pockets and pulled
myself up toward overhanging bulge.

Though Otto’s Route is rated 5.8 in
most guidebooks, I had never climbed a 5.8 overhang. My left arm was shaking as
I tapped frantically with my right hand for something, anything, to grab on to.
My grip was slipping; my sweaty fingertips no longer able to stick to the powdery
rock. But just as I considered yelling “FALLING!” and allowing myself to peel
off, my pointer and middle fingers slide home into an unseen and unnatural pocket
punched out by John Otto all of those years ago. An acrobatic pull-up later and
I was atop the belay ledge at the anchor.

Pitch 4 of Otto's Route (4 pitches, 5.8+)

“I’m in!” I yelled down, clipping in
my daisy chain to the safety of the steel bolts.

As Ella prepared to climb, I basked
in the magic of the place where I stood. All the hard work, the two-and-a-half
mile hike, the four pitches of climbing, had led to this. Standing to the south
was the Kissing Couple, perhaps the most distinguishable formation in the
canyon other than Independence. And to the west the Coke Ovens, another
impressive collection of sandstone spires. The wind was blowing but the sun was
out. And since most of the route had been in the shade, it felt good to warm my
bones under the October sun.

“Okay! On belay!” I tugged the rope
through the belay device as Ella picked her way up the prow to join me.

There are people that call Otto’s
Route a classic. And those who considered it a sandy, chipped abomination.
Every year hundreds, perhaps thousands, of rock climbers climb their way up the
shaded face of Independence Monument, following in the literal footsteps of an
American pioneer. But many more avoid the route as if it were contagious,
cursing the crowds, the relatively modest 5.8 grade and the overly manufactured
and unnatural essence of the climb.

As for myself, I think of Otto’s
Route as history. In modern days, such climbing ethics would be blasphemous.
But 104 years ago, when Otto first stepped atop this astonishing pinnacle, the
world was a far different place.

“Woo-hoo!” Ella cheered as she
mantled over the summit cap to join me. I reeled in the last of her slack.

“What do you think?” I asked as she
tied herself in to the anchor.

She looked around with a smile.
“It’s amazing!”

Surrounded by an ocean of cliffs
and pinnacles, “amazing” sounded just about right.

Friday, October 14, 2016

In the hidden corners of the world, pebbles
gather for debate. A new leader will be elected. Many years past pebbles marched across burning deserts, Thousands fell to
the might of the sun, crumbling to dust.

When
the debate died, the desert yawned before the pebble army. They turned to bow before you, new leader. Now, as they march at your heels, power
drawing power, they are effervescent with energy, ready to break their station.

All writing is the original work of Brian Wright and may not be copied, distributed, re-printed or used any form without express written consent of the author.

Wednesday, October 12, 2016

Let me start by
sayin’ every word that follows is absolutely true. If anything, it’s been
embellished the opposite direction, so that tellin’ it won’t make it hard again
for me to sleep at night. You see, after all these years I’ve just begun to
come to grips with what happened. I still ain’t got no explanations.

This particular summer,
I was beginning to feel the regrets of age. You know, thinkin’ about old
girlfriends and nights beer drinking with the boys, that sorta thing. This
regret started when I was in my mid-twenties and hit hard when I turned thirty
and my boy had already seen his first decade. He’s going to be a better man
than me, I can tell already. Anyways, I know I shouldn’t feel like that about
gettin’ old. Shit, some of my buddies never even made it this far. Guess I
should name myself lucky. So I never complain. Reckon it ain’t my style.

But anyways, I started
goin’ out on these long forays alone into the woods when work was done and I
could get away for a day or two. Gave the missus the fits. I suppose it was
some last-ditch effort to prove to myself I was still really livin’ not some
walkin’ corpse like so many in this god-forsaken world. Yep, sleepin’ out under
the stars made me feel alive.

I got to the point where
I was goin’ out on these little trips a once or twice a month. Nothin’ much
ever came of them. But there was this one time, the time I keep tryin’ to tell
you about before my train keeps rollin’ off on a new track, that I will never
forget.

I set out that afternoon
in my pickup headin’ to my favorite spot an hour or two outta the city, just
far enough that the lights didn’t orange-up the sky so much. I planned for two
nights. That’s ’bout the most I can spend anymore. Didn’t bring much, just the
clothes on my back, a cooler half-full of food and beer, a sippin’ flask a
whiskey, a few blankets and a cheap little disposable point-and-shoot, you
know, the kind with regular film you still have to take in to get developed or
whatever. I left after work and by the time I got out there it was near dark
and I had only enough time to stoke up a small fire, cook a can-a-beans, and
lay out the sleepin’ pad in the back of my truck before it was full-on night.
That was when all the strange stuff started happenin’ that changed my mind
about the dark, and spooks or whatever, forever.

The real crazy shit
started when I woke up in the middle the night needin’ awfully to piss. My
little fire had burned down to a few whisperin’ coals so I grabbed my flashlight
and took a stroll just away from the truck so I wouldn’t hop out in the mornin’
into a squishy puddle-a-piss. I had this funny feelin’ that something was
watchin’ me and it gave me them goose shivers. I strafed my flashlight through
them trees until the beam landed on the biggest, yellowest set of eyes I e’er
seen not thirty feet from where I stood. Carl Lewis woulda been proud of me
runnin’ back to my truck, still dribblin’ piss and workin’ up my fly all the
while. I jumped in the back, grabbed my 12-gauge and sat there still as a stump
waiting for whatever it was to come closer so I could part them eyes from the
rest of whatever body they belonged to. I sat there ears open for a good half
hour before I had the courage to even so much as breathe. When I finally did, I
started makin’ enough noise that I thought I’d scared away every animal for
three counties. I even fired off a round from that gun, I’s so scared. I don’t
usually do things like that. I hate to think of me and careless gunplay only to
find out later there’s a dead man on the receivin’ end I’m responsible for.

I ain’t slept but two
blinks for the rest of that night. I couldn’t get them two eyes outta my head.
There was somethin’ about them. Somethin’ odd like I’d never seen before. I built
that fire up like you wouldn’t believe until a circle of woods a hunderd yards
across was good and orange. Kept it burnin’ like that all night. And that ole
gun a mine never left my fingers.

In the mornin’ I got to
feelin’ kinda stupid for being such a chicken shit but I did a round near my
truck anyway to look for prints or shit or any anythin’ else that might clue at
what owned those piss-yellow eyes. I looked and looked but found nothin’. I
eventually resolved that it was likely just a cougar. Them got those spooky
eyes and are all quiet and sneaky like, so it fit. I’d planned to spend another
night out and I was feelin’ braver by day, so I packed up and drove a little
deeper into the forest. The road got rougher than hell and looked like nobody’d
been down it all season. Five, maybe ten, miles on I found a great spot next to
a babblin’ crick with a good fire ring and little nails already knocked into a
tree so I could hang some of my pots and pans and the like. Mostly forgetting
the night before, I made camp, got comfortable, and chewed up some jerky and
beans for supper. I went to bed feelin’ pretty darn good about things. Them
stars were out and the night was as beautiful as you could imagine. I even took
a tug or two from the bottle-a-whiskey I’d packed along.

I had the strangest dreams
that night. Dreams them eyes was everywhere lookin’ in on me in my truck,
hunderds of ‘em as a matter a fact. I woke up pretty spooked and held in a piss
for a long while cause I was scared all over. All’s I could do was pull my damn
sleeping bag over my head and hope I was invisible or somethin’ like a damn kid.
I never felt as scared in all my life. When I did finally piss—I couldn’t
really hold it no longer—I just sorta dangled my manhood over the edge of my
truck and kept my eyes closed. No doubt I put a little water on my tires, but I
didn’t know what I’d do if I saw them two eyes again.

I laid there the rest of
the night with my head inside my sleepin’ bag and my hand on my shotgun,
debatin’ on whether or not I should just pack up and get the Sam-hill out of
there. There was no way I was gonna sleep, but for some reason I felt safer
just tucked away like a damn turtle or somethin’. At first light I got the hell
outta there without pokin’ around tryin’ to figger out what was a-hauntin’ me.
I figgered I didn’t want to know.

So I got home and prolly
acted a little funny for a while ’cause the wife kept askin’ what had gotten
into me. Never had the sack to tell her nothin’, though. Wasn’t sure how such a
story might sound. People would figger I cracked or somthin’. I never told
anyone, in fact, until tellin’ you just now.

Now you prolly think
that isn’t much of a story. Prolly just let my mind get the better of me. I
started to think so myself and after a few days I would think back and call
myself crazy and worse names, and have a laugh or two. But the strangest part
came a week or two later.

You see, I remembered my
little point n’ shoot. I’m always worried I’ll catch some monster fish and
nobody’ll believe me without proof. Well, I took it in to get the pictures
developed, mostly fogettin’ that I’d even had it with me on that strange
weekend. Don’t think I even took a single picture. When I came back to pick up
my prints, I's flippin’ through them in the drugstore parking lot gettin’ a
good laugh from the ones of me and the
boys a-drinkin’ a few weeks before. But I came to the very last one and all my
blood just went zero and I got them goose shivers all over again.

The last picture was of
my truck at that campsite the second night. And layin’ in the back there was
me, sleepin’.

Follow Me on Twitter!Sign up for my Mailing ListAll writing is the original work of Brian Wright and may not be copied, distributed, re-printed or used any form without express written consent of the author. Find out here how to CONTACT me with publishing and/or use questions

Tuesday, October 11, 2016

The Comfort Zone. The most life-enhancing
moments always exist outside of it. Inside, there is nothing but a blur of
schedules, deadlines, and routines. But in those moments when you humble
yourself to the unsettling thrill of adventure, that is when the truly rich glimpses
of life come sharply into focus.

The last thing you want to see
while donning nothing but a snorkel mask, a pair of board shorts and a flimsy set
of plastic flippers is a six-foot shark swimming directly towards you. The white, tender skin of my winter-bleached body probably looked rather tempting to one
of the world’s most successful predators.

Of course, it was only a docile
nurse shark, a species listed as “mostly harmless to humans.” They were, in
fact, the main reason our sailboat had come to this particular spot, known as
“Shark and Stingray Alley,” along the Belize Barrier Reef between the islands
of Ambergris Caye and Caye Caulker. But there is something about chummed waters
infested with brownish-gray sharks, no matter how passive, that seems like a
particularly un-appealing place to “jump right in” as our haggard captain,
Captain Rob, commanded. I looked from my wife, Ella, to the school of sharks
nervously. But after a playful giggle, she plunged over the ship's rail and into the aquamarine Caribbean water. With one last mistrustful glance at
the grinning, sea-worn face of our captain, I followed.

Subsurface, it wasn’t just sharks we
found. The Belizean coral was a bounty of angel fish, bone fish, tarpon, squid,
stingrays, and countless blooms of vibrant and ethereal coral. As a mountain
boy who’d spent nearly his entire life in the American Southwest, this world
was strange and alien. After swimming for nearly an hour, however, I became
comfortable enough to find myself as delighted as a kid at an amusement park,
moving from one wonder to the next with wide eyes.

But snorkeling, no matter how
fascinating, was only a small part of Ella and I’s 16-day journey to Belize.
Belize, as it turns out, is an extremely diverse and multiethnic country, whose
long, varied history has produced a pastiche of post-colonial and post slavery
cultures. Vanished is the world of 1,500 years ago when the Mayan Civilization
reached its mightiest epoch. Their distant descendants live on, however, speaking
a unique language and preserving a modernized iteration of their ancestors’
religion. Vanished also is the era of British authority, and pirates like John
Glover, who waylaid Spanish galleons from the now eponymous Glover’s Reef as
they ferried New World treasures back to the Spanish homeland. The Belize of
today boasts variety so stark it is not uncommon to hear any one of its
denizens effortlessly bounce between three, and sometimes even as many as five,
different languages in one conversation.

Our own journey was as varied and
fascinating as the people we met along the way, and whenever we arrived in a
new basecamp, a line from Monte Python’s “Flying Circus” was always on my lips:
“And now for something completely different.” Almost two weeks after coming
face-to-face with sharks off the coast of Caye Caulker, an even bigger mouth
was about to swallow us: the yawning chasm of the Actun Tunichil Muknal Cave,
known by locals and tourists alike as the “ATM.”

The ATM cave, listed in National
Geographic as #1 on its list of Top Ten Sacred Caves, was buried deep in the
jungle and far from the white sandy beaches and coral blooms we had visited so
far. A ride down a long dirt road from San Ignacio ended at the cool waters of
a jungle creek. Not as cold as the rivers of western Colorado back home, but
refreshing on a day when the temperatures were expected to reach 104 degrees
with over 80% humidity.

“From here, we swim,” informed
Gonzo, our tour guide for the day. To protect the fragile archaeology, no one
is allowed in the ATM without a guide.

One-by-one we jumped into the water
and swam upstream into darkness. As the limestone closed around us, we entered
one of the ancient cathedrals of the Maya. After rounding just one corner, the
darkness was so complete not even the vague outline of your hand could be seen
just inches from the tip of your nose. Ella was smiling as she clicked on her
headlamp.

We climbed over jagged blocks of
limestone, squeezed through fissures just wide enough for our shoulders turned
sideways, and waded through water as much as neck deep. All around jagged
pinnacles of calcium deposited by millions of years groundwater percolating through
the porous stone formed ethereal stalactites and columns. This cave would have
been an astonishing place to explore even without the archaeological treasures
that lay a mile underground.

All at once we reached a wall.
“From here, we climb,” said Gonzo. “No more shoes. But you must put on your
socks.” These measures, he told us, were in place to protect precious artifacts
from clumsy feet and the oils of our skin. For over a thousand years they had been
preserved down here and hopefully they would remain for many more.

We climbed. We scrambled. We
explored.

At first we found only pottery.
Shards and eventually complete jars and pots, some filled with seashells from
the distant ocean. “Offerings to the gods,” Gonzo told us. “And when the Mayans
found these ineffective, they had to raise the stakes.” There was an ominous
tone in his voice, and I soon learned why. “This way,” he called, beckoning
forward with his hands.

He led us higher, to a vast chamber
with thirty-foot tall formations and crystalline formations of jaw-plummeting
beauty. But scattered at their bases were something not as beautiful: bones.
Many, many bones. Victims of sacrifices that the Mayans hoped would appease
their gods to end the long droughts or periods of war. There were finger bones
from digits forcibly removed, and skulls with the telltale crushing on their
backs indicating the “blunt force trauma” that had killed them. This wasn’t
just a cave, it was tomb. Being here, in a place both sacred and terrible to
those lost people, was more than a little uncomfortable.

But eventually we wended our way
back out of the ancient graveyard. Back down the wall to the place we had left
our shoes and slowly back to the final pool where actual daylight could be seen
again. When we emerged in the jungle I was in a mood of silent contemplation. The
Mayans, and the Belizeans for that matter, were a fascinating culture.

It was only three days later when
my feet set back on American soil. The simple convenience of trustworthy tap
water, reliable sewage treatment and roads not pocked with potholes so deep
they could be called craters was a welcome change. It had been fourteen years
since I had left the borders of our great country. Far too long, for I’d
discovered that while at times traveling in a developing country can be
uncomfortable, disgusting, and even a bit dangerous, there is no better way to
plumb the depths of your mind, body and soul than to find yourself somewhere
strange, somewhere new and see what you learn.

All writing is the original work of Brian Wright and may not be copied, distributed, re-printed or used any form without express written consent of the author. Find out here how to CONTACT me with publishing and/or use questions

Friday, October 7, 2016

On a stormy September afternoon, at 2:22 pm
local time, the National Weather Service issued a flash flood alert for Zion
National Park. The conditions were ripe for strong and sudden thunderstorms. Within
an hour, the Park Service had officially closed all of Zion’s numerous serpentine
slot canyons to the public, and at approximately 4:30 pm, the storm that the
NWS had anticipated began to unleash.

What followed was one of the most
intense, and ultimately deadly, storm systems in the history of southern Utah. At
5:15 pm, the USGS recorded a flow rate of 56 cubic feet per second (cfs) on the
Virgin River near Springdale, Utah at the downstream end of the park. By 5:30
the river has risen to 2,630 cfs. By the time the skies cleared that evening,
nineteen people had been killed by flashfloods. Twelve of the victims had been in
two vehicles just outside the nearby town of Hildale, Utah, 15 miles away.
Another seven while exploring Keyhole Canyon within the park’s borders. The
incident was one of the darkest days in the history of Zion and underscored the
menacing side behind its veil of sandstone majesty.

Just three weeks after that
now-infamous day, I found myself standing at the entrance of the famous Zion
Narrows as the sky darkened overhead.

It is hard not to be awestruck by
the stark beauty of Zion National Park. Vertical sandstone bastions of orange,
crimson and carmine soar so impossibly tall they seem a figment of your waking
imagination. The canyon floor, on the other hand, is surprisingly lush. Shaded
by the thousand-foot walls, many ambrosial aquatic features dominate the
landscape: Emerald Falls, the Hanging Gardens, the Subway and—the main artery
for it all—the Virgin River.

My wife, Ella, and I had been
planning a getaway to Zion for months. Only eight hours from our hometown of
Glenwood Springs, Colorado, it seemed a terrible oversight that we had not yet
undertaken a pilgrimage to this cathedral of the American Southwest. During our
week in the park we explored some of the classic hikes: the impressive heights
of Observation Point, the spine-like exposure of Angel’s Landing, the elegant
beauty of the Emerald Pools, and the quieter, less trodden intrigue of the
Subway. But for me the heart of the park was here in the Narrows.

Standing at the canyon mouth, the
yawning fissure seemed eager to swallow our minuscule forms. We took a moment
to select the best walking stick from the many lining the stone wall at the end
of the pedestrian trail, rolled up our pants and stepped into the cold water of
the Virgin River.

Almost immediately, the unique
nature of the Narrows was apparent. Massive vertical walls leaped up from both
sides of the water to neck-bending heights. There was no trail and navigating
upstream required careful diligence to locate the shallowest and least
obstructed channels. We were in the water more often than not. The intense
beauty was humbling, and every corner so new and breathtaking that each could
have been its own masterful work of art.

The Subway in Zion National Park

The sliver of sky far above had
cleared to a beautiful sapphire blue and the threat of rain and flooding seemed
far away. But given the recent tragedy, it was impossible not to ponder the
potential of such an event occurring here. The possible sequence of events was
terrible to visualize: a sudden rainstorm, an echoing grumble of rising water,
the appearance of a coffee-black mass of water and debris rounding the corner
upstream. Where would you go? What would you do? Glancing from wall to vertical
wall, it was clear that in many parts of the Narrows (and other canyons in
Zion) there was no safe haven from the abrupt onslaught of a flashflood. The
tunnels of Zion, though some of the most beautiful places in the American
desert, hold their dark secret.

Nowhere in the canyon was the
foreboding claustrophobia more apparent than in the section known as Wall
Street, where the walls closed in tight against the Virgin River on both sides
and the few saving spits of land where at least some higher ground might be
found disappeared altogether. Here the beauty and danger reached a dramatic
crescendo. Ella and I moved cautiously ahead, probing the turbid currents for
deep runnels and slippery boulders. A few days earlier just after completing
our hike of Observation Point, we had been overrun by a short but strong
thunderstorm. Huge cascades spilled hundreds of feet down normally dry rock
faces. Excited like children we’d braved the rain to take stunning photographs
of colossal, fleeting waterfalls. But in Wall Street the memory was enough to
make me shudder in fear. That storm had moved in very quickly, the sky going
from blue to gray in little more than half an hour. Here, trapped and exposed
to the heart of just such a threat, it was easy to see how quickly things could
turn tragic.

But each new bend was a new world,
and we were drawn deeper and deeper into the canyon. Before long the
just-one-more-corners had turned into four miles. Finally, in a sunnier,
relatively open stretch of the canyon, we found a massive rock to sunbathe on
and reflect on our experience of the Narrows. There were many more miles of
canyon to see, but without an overnight permit this was the end of the road.

“This is amazing!” Ella proclaimed
as the sun cascaded onto her cheeks and shoulders. “We have to come back and do
the full canyon.”

I thought about the dark skies, the
debris-choked flood waters and the ill-fated seven whose lives came to an
abrupt end in a place not terribly dissimilar from the one where we now rested.

“Absolutely,” I replied. But quickly I added, “As long as the weather looks
good.” Yes, the tunnels of Zion have a dark side. But I had fallen in love with
them anyway.

All writing is the original work of Brian Wright and may not be copied, distributed, re-printed or used any form without express written consent of the author. Find out here how to CONTACT me with publishing and/or use questions